Sonnet CCCVII

The great economy of Spring is paralleled by none:
she’ll lease a birdsong lest we’re bored – but only to the trees;
she’s miserly with sunny warmth and sheds it grudgingly;
she only spares a tiny slip of ordinary sun.

Each gesture’s full of luxury, but counted in her sum,
and in the end we’re left with scraps, all small and crude and cheap:
a sliver of a heated ray, a menacing zephyr –
and even time is spent with care; it slowly sticks as gum.

It’s not until a month or two she spends some more and more;
her time is thrown away – like that! – and soon she starts to give –
her gold, the sun; the grass, an emerald – now shared as gifts.

As if she’s realized she’ll die; decides to spend it all –
and yet we know that’s not the case, in fact, the opposite –
that Spring – warmed by a guilty coal – has just begun to live.

Sonnet CCLXXVIII

Polyphony, as sumptuous as a rich brocade,
shines vivid crimson with its careful mastery.
A layer through a layer in a tapestry,
inverted motives in the fabric interplay.
One sees the colours, recognising themes like days,
arranged in curlicues of phoenixes and seas
of countersubjects, slit like ruby string,
between the lines of subjects, woven in a braid.
The balanced harmonies, which satisfy each voice
cohere so gingerly, a stitch by stitch with poise,
familiar majesty, a souvenir of old,
a tad bit tarnished from disuse, still grandly frail,
courageous in its use, a kingly conquest sailed –
surmised as luxury, subdued as precious gold.

Sonnet CCXVII

So like I said before: I’d love to write for pay.
But like I said before, I won’t get much to keep.
I’d be so poor, unable to buy food to eat.
I’d starve as artists do, but write the livelong day.
And would I stay more happy, living in this way?
Some say you’re better off when following your dreams.
But if you’re poor, unloved, with little food to eat,
and still rejected, what are to do or say?

Just nothing, probably. Write manga for your bread.
Or else your masterpiece will stay unread.

So drift away, my lovely dreams of easy fame,
relaxing hobbies, happiness. It’s fun to write,
it’s fun to read, but real ambitions keep us wise,
and bring stability, what true happiness should make.

Sonnet CLXIX

So Mozart’s for the rich and old some say
and has a haughty air of grace demure.
One thinks of “classical” as haute couture –
I beg to differ greatly. Hear my tale:

The many times I’ve sat a sullen day,
abandoned by some friends who needed cures
as they were drained and aurally so hurt
because I played them Bach and Chopin’s ways.

The many times I drained my parent’s cash
for classical CD’s and lessons too
and books and such. Is that what splendour is?

But many teenage friends of mine think trash
of modern junk. So leave that waste with you;
I’ll keep my ever-youthful, luscious Liszt.

Sonnet CLXVII

Across my bus stop, twenty steps away
there sat a store that seemed a restaurant,
which formed a happy, homely, rustic haunt
where passing motorists would spend the day.

However, doomed to die with lack of pay –
reward for starting in a small-town lawn –
it closed one day, its assets quickly pawned,
and then repainted blue to brownish-grey.

A month or two before the winter came
a brand new business sprang to life with ease,
a shining beacon, sullen grey and new.

But now I see ambition, growing fame,
a sign, a menu, posters on the trees -
and all for money, rude and quick and crude.

Sonnet C

While you were watching mindless T.V. shows
and playing games on dour computers too…
I babysat my brother, and I grew.
I turned sixteen, became a working prole,
Wrote three exams, each lasting three long hours,
(The subjects: counterpoint, then harmony;
the one I self-prepared was history.
They stole July and all my mental pow’r.)
I travelled to Toronto, saw a zoo,
I wrote a hundred sonnets (finally),
began analysis, new harmony,
and watched Olympic Games the whole while through.

And though achievement fills a holey life,
some say the Holy earn a better prize.

Sonnet XV

This present world, I think, is now a mess.
While some are destitute the rest ignore
The strife we try our best now to suppress.
Let’s take a look at how our world has died…

Without our money, we are lost at sea,
A sea of people, trapped in plastic lives
Who seem to cringe without their currency.
Without our cash, we seem all doomed to death.

With talent, we can’t go far in life.
It is no use unless one has their cash.
We’re dumb and dull as worn-down, helpless knives
That media, ads, and pop stars dominate.

So we are trapped in fruitless, stupid lives:
We need our money: coins and dollar bills.